


Skyfire and Thorn

by sister_coyote



Series: Revolutionaries of Memory [3]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: BDSM, Bloodplay, Cunnilingus, Electrical Play, F/M, Masochism, OrgXIII, Plot What Plot, Sadism, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-03
Updated: 2006-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-04 14:00:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sister_coyote/pseuds/sister_coyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one else really understood the slow build of power.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skyfire and Thorn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Harukami](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harukami/gifts).



> Contains mild spoilers for Kingdom Hearts: Chain of Memories

Though she was not, herself, calm, Larxene appreciated calm places. Hers was a power that gathered itself slowly, until the air throbbed thick with it and she could taste it on her lips, and though it seemed chaotic to others, it built well in quietness. So she preferred the library, where she could curl up with something interesting to read: and so did Marluxia, whose native element was things that grew quietly and slowly but inevitably, like the roots of trees pushing up the cobblestones of a road.

She thought of this, looking up from her book at him; thinking of power, licking her lips. He flicked the page over in the book he was reading with every evidence of total concentration. But she heard the dry slithering rustle of vines, and was not surprised when a long stem slithered up under her chaise and coiled itself inches from her hand.

She noted her page and the let her book slide closed, propped her chin on her fist and studied it. The green vine was bigger around than one of her fingers, not quite so thick as her wrist, and studded along its length with curved thorns. Deliberately, she reached out and closed her hand around the vine, letting the thorns dig in. Marluxia didn't look up, but she heard his breath hitch slightly.

She let go of the vine and pulled her hand back, examined it. The thorn cut thin white scratches on the black leather of her glove, and made a small furrow, but hadn't broken through the leather. "Come on, Marluxia," she said, "you're not _trying_."

He didn't look up, but turned the page with a fingertip, and there was another rustling noise and the vine curved and arched and presented her with another length of itself, this one quite a bit thicker and studded with long wicked spikes. "That's more like it," she said, dropping her voice an octave, and gripped it firmly. The leather parted and pain blossomed in the palm of her hand. She held it anyway, feeling the sting and burn, and the vine rustled a little beneath her hand. Then she let go, and examined the pierced leather, the blood whose red color was subtle against the black leather, pooling a little. She held her hand out so that the blood wouldn't get on the chaise, and let it drip, drop by drop, onto the vine.

She could feel Marluxia's eyes on her, then. She didn't look up until all the blood had run down from her palm onto the vine, red on green. "Now the crops will grow, I suppose," she said, still not looking at him. The cut on her hand was closing already. They healed quickly. "I seem to remember something about that. Blood and rain and earth, and—"

"Oak," he said. "And mistletoe." His voice was soft, but very slightly throaty.

She could feel her own power building almost without her intention, the dark cloud at the back of her mind, the crackle on her skin. She looked up at him, finally, and his eyes were like rain. "Doesn't mistletoe kill oaks?"

"Yes," Marluxia said. The vines curled up, one loop winding around the ankle of her boot, another curling around her wrist. She let it. "Mistletoe, the oak-slayer, king-slayer, god-slayer."

"Is that from your world?" The vines pulled, and she gave token resistance, felt the thorns cut and sting. He didn't answer. He never talked about the world his Other had come from. This didn't stop her from asking. The end of the vine threaded up under her robe, a tickling presence against her skin. The thorns didn't dig in, or at least, not yet. She got up, felt the vines tug at her in protest, and pushed forward toward Marluxia despite that. Pinpricks sank into her skin, but not enough to give her pause. The backlit darkness of summer stormclouds simmered behind her eyes, and she could feel the air thickening. Marluxia rose to his feet, putting his book aside.

Abruptly the vines stopped pulling and started pushing, and two more twined around her arms and a third coiled itself up her leg from the boot. She reached out to catch Marluxia by the forearm, felt another loop of vine wind around her waist, pulling her closer to him.

"Am I trying hard enough now?" he asked, and she could hear the quiver of amusement.

"As much as I am," she said, and reached out and seized his forearm. Blue-white lightning crackled up through her hand and into him, and though it was but the barest shiver to her, it made him moan, the muscles of his neck in sharp relief. She let the lightning fade, and he gasped for breath, and she felt the vine tighten around her leg and sting from knee to thigh. She arched and cried out.

"Again," he breathed, and she didn't know if he meant her power or his own, but lightning once summoned was hard to deny, and she let it arc this time from the sky, striking them both, outlining him in blazing white and he howled, as he always did in the full force of her attention—and the vines crawled up her body and pulled her closer, until they were tight against each other, the whole length of her body against his.

She grabbed the zipper on the front of his robe and dragged it down, and he did the same, but where she had to push his off his shoulders with her hands, his vines divested her of her robes, and not without some tearing. It didn't matter. "Leave the boots and gloves," he breathed, which was just _fine_ because she'd planned on leaving them anyway. She hooked one leg up around his hip, braced herself on his shoulder with her arm, and then let the electricity sing out of her and into him again, because she liked to see him thrash and howl. This time the shock came so strong he lost his footing, and they tumbled to the floor; she had enough presence of mind still to turn them both, break the fall—the net of vines tangled around them helped—and then she was on top astride his waist, as the vines curled around her. He said, "Larxene—"

"Yes," she said, taking him in one gloved hand. He gasped. The vines tugged at her legs, pulling her thighs apart, and she gave a long throaty laugh and said, "Impatient much?"

"You're always slower than I expect you to be," he said, and she felt the prickly caress of a thorn, not digging in, just sliding up her throat and caressing her cheek.

"Lightning only looks fast," she said, moving over him, "from the outside." She let his tip slide against her, wet—"But from the inside, they build slow, sometimes for hours, the drawing of power . . . ." She slid down, inch by inch, slow and slow, " . . . building and building until it's too much, hidden inside the clouds, and then it _strikes_." He made a grating sound and she moaned. "You know about slow," she said to him, "I know you do."

"Yes," he said, and arched into her, and the sensation took her breath away. Slick and fierce and almost aching, inside her, it was good, it was _always_ good. He understood as the others did not; even Axel—who comprehended the mingling of pain and pleasure—didn't know how to build power on power quite as Marluxia did: until it was inevitable, undeniable, sure as the turn of the seasons or the flower looking to the sun.

Marluxia's gloved hand curled around her hip, and the tendril around her waist tightened, guided her movements. She went with it except when she chose not to, and sometimes out of perversity she would slow or speed her pace against its guidance, and felt the scratch of thorns. The bolt had spent most of her power, and what remained was thin staticky crackles, that passed entirely without her direction from her to him. Each time the flick of electricity made her jump with pleasure and made him gasp raggedly.

And even taking it slow, they too-soon reached the point at which the end was inevitable. Marluxia's face tightened, his cheekbones in sharp relief with the intensity of his pleasure, and then he bucked a little and came with a soft breathless sound. She moved on him until he was finished and his breathing evened out, and then said, "You'd better not be planning on leaving me hanging," but low, and thick with laughter, because she knew he wouldn't.

"I value my life more than that," he said after a moment, and then rolled her over so she was cradled in the nest of vines he had built, and the vines tugged her thighs apart once again; and one slid into her—the tip, without thorns, and she wasn't sure whether that relieved or disappointed her—and he bent his head delicately and licked her clit. The vine curled a little, stroking just _there_, and he lapped again. She squirmed, and it took only one more time, and the press of the vine inside her, and she came, swift and hard as her element, with a wordless scream.

Afterwards, the vines receded, sinking to silent immobility like any other plant. She blinked hazily at him. He wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand and touched her chin with light fingertips.

"I always have known," he said, "that you are in better control than you pretend to be."

"And what will you do with that knowledge?" Shaking, she pushed herself to her knees, unwinding a tendril from the heel of her boot. Her gaze was unshaking when she met his eyes.

"Use it, of course," he said.

She gave him a savage smile, and then kissed him and bit his lip, tasting herself on his lips, and ozone, and sap. "I would expect nothing less," she said.


End file.
